


Claimed Spaces

by Nina (ninamazing), ninamazing



Category: Harriet the Spy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 21:54:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamazing/pseuds/Nina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamazing/pseuds/ninamazing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A semi-impromptu spy route for Harriet, set approximately ten years from the end of the original novel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Claimed Spaces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nwhepcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/gifts).



> Dear Yuletide recipient, I hope this is to your liking! It's been a long time since I read Harriet the Spy, so I'm a little rusty on the canon -- but this was a much-appreciated chance to get back into it. Happy holidays.

THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS WEARS SCARVES IS BACK IN THE LIBRARY TODAY, OF COURSE. SHE ALWAYS SITS IN THE SAME PLACE TOO, BY THE WINDOW WHERE THE LIGHT IS BEST AND THE CHAIR'S THE MOST COMFORTABLE. APPARENTLY SHE BELIEVES IT'S HER RIGHT. IF I WERE IN A SORORITY AND DID BALLROOM DANCE I SUPPOSE I COULD STAKE OUT MY OWN LIBRARY LAIR AS WELL. STILL — I MIGHT COME IN EARLY TOMORROW AND SIT IN HER SPOT BEFORE SHE GETS HERE. THINK ABOUT THIS.

Even in the windowless study room of the library, Harriet can feel December: the labored growling of the radiators; the kids from California who leave their sweaters and knit caps on as they scribble, strapped into iPods; the constant occupation of every table and chair, the surest signal that it is almost all over, all over again.

The girl who always wears scarves bursts into tears. It's the slowest burst Harriet's ever seen, though; the girl breathes hard for a few moments with her nose in the crease of her statistics textbook, and then she wipes at her eye. There's one small line of saltwater, crawling with increasing acceleration from her eyelash to her chin.

GIRL WHO ALWAYS WEARS SCARVES HAS FINALLY LOST IT! AND YET SOMEHOW I AM ALMOST CERTAIN THAT SHE WILL BE BACK HERE TOMORROW, STUDYING FOR ECONOMICS ON TUESDAY LIKE NOTHING HAPPENED. I WONDER WHAT IT'S LIKE TO HAVE THAT KIND OF DOGGED MOTIVATION.

Harriet closes her notebook, and tries to ignore the rise in her heartbeat as she slips past the girl's chair and brushes her thigh against one scarf's tasseled end. The pages of that statistics textbook are going to be forever wavy, now, forever dotted with tears. Harriet tells herself that saying something wouldn't have helped, that saying something always seems to end badly; she almost convinces herself that Ole Golly would have believed it, too.

*

Harriet leans against the slice of orange plastic that is her seat, feeling the give and take of the wall against her back as the train speeds through the tunnel. She's just boarded at Columbia and 116th; getting all the way to 34th Street will take almost an hour. She takes out her notebook and scans the car, hugging her backpack closer against her chest and gripping her duffel bag between her ankles.

THERE'S ALWAYS ONE MAN WHO SEEMS TO BE SLEEPING IN THE CORNER, CLAIMING THIS SPACE ON THE TRAIN. RAGGEDY, WITH A GIANT BEARD, A FILTHY SWEATSUIT, AND A POWERFUL BODY ODOR THAT EXTENDS IN A VARYING RADIUS OF UNOCCUPIED SEATS AND UNGRIPPED HANDLES AROUND HIM. IS THERE A CHANCE THAT THEY ALL BELONG TO SOME CLUB, AND MEET TO PAY DUES AND DIVVY UP THE SUBWAY CARS EACH MONTH? THIS ONE'S GOT A SHIRT THAT READS **FRANK**, FROM SOME AUTO BODY SHOP BY THE LOOKS OF IT, AND THE SEVENTH CAR OF THE 8:06 P.M. LOCAL 1 TRAIN IS HIS DOMAIN. HE SHOULD REALLY CHARGE TITHES.

The man coughs. Harriet snaps shut her notebook and closes her eyes quickly, dropping her head against the back of her seat. She's learned, now, to keep thoughts in her head for a certain amount of time, in case she can't immediately write them down.

She's learned to keep some thoughts out of her notebook entirely.

I CAN'T BELIEVE MY PARENTS WERE UPSET THAT I COULDN'T BE HOME UNTIL THREE DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS. THIS IS COLUMBIA, FOR CHRISSAKES. I COULD HAVE GOTTEN INTO HARVARD AND THEN WHERE WOULD WE BE?

When Harriet cautiously opens her eyes, Frank isn't even awake — he'd just coughed in his sleep, and hasn't moved, of course. A preppy thirtysomething with a Saks Fifth Avenue shopping bag is eying him from across the car.

That woman seems to think Frank is going to mug her or something. She's regretting her choice to ever get on this subway car, you can see it in her eyes. I'd hate to blow her world to pieces by pointing out that Frank looks like's about twenty minutes away from turning to stone.

At Columbus Circle Frank abruptly gets up and is out the double doors before Harriet notices he's gone.

FIRST THE GIRL WHO ALWAYS WEARS SCARVES HAS A BREAKDOWN AND NOW A SLEEPING TRAIN MAN HAS ACTUALLY SHOWN ACTIVE SIGNS OF LIFE. I THINK THIS MIGHT BE THE SIGN OF A ZOMBIE UPRISING. I'M SURE MY MOTHER — AND OLE GOLLY — WOULD SAY THERE'S NO POINT TO ME GOING TO COLLEGE IF I'M JUST GOING TO WATCH TRASHY SCI-FI MOVIES.

I REALLY WOULD LIKE TO HAVE FOLLOWED FRANK, IN ANY CASE. DAMMIT. BE MORE ALERT NEXT TIME, AND KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR SLEEPING SUBWAY MEN WITH MONOGRAMMED MECHANICS' SHIRTS.

*

Harriet is at the track twenty minutes before boarding, and ignores the signs warning passengers not to step onto the platform until at most fifteen minutes before departure. This is the only way she can get the seat she needs, the single beside the window in the tiny alcove between the dining car and its tiny galley, where almost nobody can see what she's doing.

She steps to the side of a giant concrete column, and a policeman in a neon jacket appears out of nowhere and claps her on the back.

"Hey there, miss! Trying to be clever?"

She looks up at him with tight lips and doesn't say anything.

"Step back inside, please, miss."

"My train's leaving," she hears herself say, but he grins and shakes his head.

"Not from this platform," he says. "Let's go. For your own safety."

She scowls and does as he says. There doesn't seem to be anything for it.

Back in the station she explains once again how to make a tomato sandwich, and the high-school-aged au bon pain employees stare back at her with vacant, unamused eyes. She has to sit in the middle of the food court, between a smoothie stand and a miniature train station that _toot-toot_s every twenty seconds. She hopes no one hangs out at the back of the smoothie stand while she writes, and tries to focus.

HOME AGAIN HOME AGAIN. I WONDER IF ANYTHING REMOTELY INTERESTING WILL HAPPPEN **THIS** HOLIDAY. PROBABLY NOT.

Behind her, someone laughs.

Harriet whirls. She's confused, at first. It's the beautiful woman from the subway, the one who shops at Saks. Or, no — it's the girl from the library who always wears scarves. Or it's someone different, someone Harriet's never met. She thinks maybe she can't properly recognize people anymore if they're not on her spy route.

"That's what I always think about going home, too," the person says, and smiles.


End file.
